


Taurus

by yellow_crayon



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boxer AU, Erik is Shuri and Peter's Roommate at MIT, Flirting, M/M, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-19 12:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_crayon/pseuds/yellow_crayon
Summary: He is in the middle of a video conference with Tony Stark when Shuri bursts in through the glass doors, points an accusing finger at his face, and yells, “so you’re the sugar daddy Erik’s been talking nonstop about?”T’Challa freezes with the coffee cup half-lifted to his mouth.(Modern AU with reluctant sugar daddy T'Challa and thirsty af Erik)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [老实巴交金牛座](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348442) by [annebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebaby/pseuds/annebaby)



> So here's a snippet of what I was thinking about with boxer AU. I wrote out a bit to gauge interest. Drop me a comment if you're interested in seeing more. I do have the plot planned out, but I'm not well versed in boxing terms at all, so I'm reluctant to put too much effort into it if no one wants more. Ratings will go up if I do write more. 
> 
> Happy reading, folks.

He is in the middle of a video conference with Tony Stark when Shuri bursts in through the glass doors, points an accusing finger at his face, and yells, “so you’re the sugar daddy Erik’s been talking nonstop about?”

T’Challa freezes with the coffee cup half-lifted to his mouth.

On the monitor, Stark grins and says, “Hey, new intern. What was that you just said about him being someone's sugar daddy?”

This kickstarts T’Challa’s brain functions again, and he turns to frown at the other man, “intern?”

“She applied and was gladly accepted for a summer position in one of my robotics labs,” Stark explains with a smug wink. “I’m looking forward to picking through that smart brain of yours, kid.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark, but I need a minute with my brother,” Shuri says through clenched teeth, pausing long enough to flash the monitor an artificial smile.

“I suppose she won’t be seeing much of your son then,” T’Challa says airily. He takes his time gathering the company documents spread out across the table and placing them back into the envelope.

“What do you mean? Pete’s gonna be at the tower,” Stark says from the screen, and T’Challa allows himself a small triumphant smile when he announces to his long-time business partner/rival, “as it turns out, Mr. Parker applied to work for me this summer.”

“What?!” Stark’s comical expression cuts off when Shuri remotely overrides T’Challa’s command on her phone and powers down the monitor.

“Why would you apply for an internship at Stark Industries?” He demands in the silence that follows. Shuri lifts her eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest. The expression on her face is scarily like Ramonda’s when she is about to tell T’Challa off for something.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales, “it’s not like that, Shuri.”

“Really?” His 17-year-old baby sister rounds the conference table and plops her butt over his documents. “You bought him a motorcycle, and a whole bunch of expensive clothes.”

“What was I supposed to do, Shuri? The boy has holes the size of my fist in his jeans in the middle of winter.”

“It's part of the hipster look, you old fart,” She rolls her eyes, poking his chest painfully with a forefinger. “And the motorcycle?”

“Isn’t that what kids your age are into nowadays?” T’Challa shoots back drily. “Somehow I don’t see him riding an eco-friendly bike around Cambridge like Peter.”

“Kids my age are into stupid fidget spinner and eating Tide Pods,” Shuri says, “and he’s not my age, T’Challa, he’s twenty.”

“So basically still a child,” He replies patiently. “Look, you two are clearly mistaking my intentions for something sinister, and it’s not. You said it yourself that your roommate needs all the help he can get.”

“Erik hates it when people look at him and think 'charity case,'” She says flatly. “He still insists we split the apartment rent even though Pete and I can totally cover his part.”

“Lesson learned,” T’Challa sighs, “please kindly remove yourself from my papers and inform Mr. Stevens that I am not attempting to solicit sexual favors from him for money.”

“I’m surprised you even know what a ‘sugar daddy’ is,” Shuri says, not budging in the least. “I mean you are so out of loop when it comes to pop culture that it's just sad at this point. You’re what, thirty? Mr. Stark’s like fifty and he knows what Snapchat and Twitter are.”

“I will have security kick you out into the street, sister, don’t think I won’t.” T’Challa warns.

“No you won’t,” She pats his cheek with a condescending hand and flutters her eyelashes, “you moved the company HQ all the way from California to Boston just so you’d be close to me while I go to school, so no, brother, you won’t.”

“Fine, then I will accept that invitation to speak at MIT next month,” He says evenly, noting with satisfaction the look of horror on Shuri’s face.

“No, you wouldn’t dare,” She gasps, clutching at her chest.

“If you don’t go right now and let me resume my work, I will,” T’Challa smiles sharply, “and I will bring mother.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll go!” Shuri flings her hands up in exasperation. “But only because Peter just texted me that he’s downstairs to pick me up.”

“So, T’Challa 651 and Shuri 648?” He steeples his fingers and smirks at his sister’s glare.

“You know, you should stop doing that,” She huffs, making her way to the doors of the conference room, “it makes you look like a cartoon villain, T'Challa.”

“I love you too,” He says innocently. Shuri flips him off. 

 

* * *

 

**_So Shuri came by today with an interesting theory._ **

T'Challa sends the short text the moment Shuri disappears out the door. He sighs deeply and stands. Down below in the busy streets, he spots his sister jump onto the back of Peter Parker’s cringe-worthy lime green bicycle. T’Challa’s phone pings softly.

**_oops my bad_ **

He shakes his head at the casual tone and writes back: **_You know that is not my intention, Erik.  
_**

The reply is almost instant. ****

**_wouldnt mind if it were tho_ **

Followed by a smiley face with a wink, three eggplants and a peach. 

T’Challa frowns, puzzled, and types back: **_Does that mean you guys are short on groceries? I can have Okoye bring some over if that is the case._  
**

Erik sends an eye-roll emoji in response. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey daddy,” The tall barista leaning against the counter purrs when he catches sight of T’Challa, “what can I getcha today?”

“Erik,” T’Challa warns, feeling his cheeks grow hot at the word. “You know what I like.”

“I sure do,” Erik leers, flashing him gold-capped canines as he grabs a cup and scribbles something on the side. “Whatcha doin’ here on campus? Shouldn’t you be runnin’ that flashy tech company of yours, your highness?”

“I have a guest lecture to give about the latest tissue engineering projects our company is working on,” He replies. The student cafe where Erik is working is mostly empty at the moment, so he stands by the counter as Erik goes about preparing his order.

“Tryin’ to grab some fresh-faced interns before Stark swoops in, huh?” Erik grins knowingly.

“Something like that,” T’Challa admits unashamedly, “would you be interested?”

“Depends,” Erik shrugs, pouring the hot coffee into T’Challa’s cup, “do I get to see you everyday?”

“You might,” T’Challa says lightly, accepting the drink when the young man hands it over the counter. He takes a small sip and smiles. The coffee tastes just right.

“When’s your lecture?” Erik asks, glancing at the clock.

“In a few minutes,” T’Challa replies, “I’m heading over now. Care to join me?”

“My shift doesn’t end till five, but I can get Linda to cover for me. I gotta RSVP for the thing?” His baby sister's roommate asks, already tugging at his black apron.

“I’m sure Shuri can save you a seat,” T’Challa smiles. “See you there, Erik.” 

 

* * *

 

Erik slips into the lecture hall five minutes after T’Challa starts speaking and drops into the seat next to Shuri, Peter, and Peter’s best friend Ned. T’Challa smiles at him and pauses to take a sip from his coffee cup, setting it down beside his elbow on the podium. To his confusion, a soft ripple of laughter goes through the first few rows of students. He clears his throat and keeps going, but the soft whispers do not cease.

Up in the fourth row, Shuri’s gesturing frantically at him. Beside her, Peter lifts his own coffee mug and taps urgently on the side. T’Challa picks up his coffee and turns it around to find the massive word  ** _‘Daddy’_** scribbled on the side in permanent marker with a looping heart drawn beneath it. Erik grins, puts two fingers into his mouth and blasts off a loud wolf whistle that finally sends the girls in the front row into a giggling fit. Shuri smacks him in the stomach with her quantum physics textbook.

Face flaming hot with embarrassment, T’Challa carefully puts the cup out of sight behind the podium, takes a deep breath, and soldiers on with his talk.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more. I honestly feel like I don't have the skills to write smut for this fic's premise...

T’Challa is on a date with yet another one of his mother’s ‘potential marriage candidates’ when Shuri calls. Ramonda’s obsession with grand-babies has risen exponentially since his thirtieth birthday, but after ending his relationship with Nakia, T’Challa has not felt the same attraction toward anyone else. Well, technically there is someone, but he isn’t going to touch that thought with a ten foot pole because—

**I'M A BARBIE GIRL, IN A BARBIE WORLD**

He flinches when the loud ringtone tears through the quaint little restaurant like a fog horn. His date chokes on her wine as T’Challa fumbles for the small rectangle in his suit pocket. He’s pretty sure he’d put the phone on silent mode before entering the establishment.

 **LIFE IN PLASTIC, IT'S FANTASTIC**  
**YOU CAN BRUSH MY HAIR, UNDRESS ME—**

“My apologies, I need to take this, it’s my sister,” T’Challa bolts to his feet when it becomes evident that Shuri had somehow tampered with the device and disabled silent mode all together.

“Of course,” The woman across the table smiles, and he almost feels a hint of affection for her patience. Trying his best to muffle the irritating song blasting from his phone, T’Challa quickly makes his way out of the restaurant.

“Shuri, what is wrong with you?! I told you I was on a date with someone,” He hisses into the speaker the moment he is out of earshot of the waitstaff in the entrance.

“Were you two having sex?” Comes the tinny reply on the other end. She doesn’t sound as devious or delighted about her prank as T'Challa had expected.

“No, we are at dinner,” He frowns, “is everything alright, Shuri?”

“No,” She sounds miserable, like the time he’d come home to find blood splattered all over the floor of the lab from when she’d accidentally sliced open her palm with a jagged piece of steel. “Can you maybe drop by the police station by any chance...”

“Did you get arrested?” He asks with false calm.

“It’s Erik actually,” Shuri says, and T’Challa hears Peter’s voice in the background, possibly also on the phone with his father. T’Challa heaves a sigh and glances back at the warm inviting glow from within the restaurant. Erik is technically not his responsibility, but...

“I will be there in ten minutes,” He tells Shuri, “call Nakia and wait for us. Also, before I forget, if you ever tamper with my phone again, sister, I will strip you of all your lab clearances for a year. Am I clear?”

“Yes T’Challa,” She echoed obediently, “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” He replies before adding in a much softer tone, “do not worry, Nakia and I will deal with this.”

 

* * *

 

“Another date interrupted?” Nakia smiles at him when T’Challa finds her standing in the lobby area with the two anxious kids in tow.

“How can you tell?” He asks drily, placing a comforting hand on both Shuri and Peter’s shoulders.

“You’re wearing your ‘date cologne,’” His ex-girlfriend/lawyer replies with a wink, motioning for T’Challa to join her as a familiar blond detective steps out into the hall. Nakia had introduced Ross as an old friend from the academy back when she and T’Challa had been together.

“I do not have a date cologne, Nakia,” T’Challa tells her wearily. Then, turning to the two teenagers, he orders, “wait here with Okoye and Ayo.”

“Ever heard of Oasis?” Detective Ross asks as he leads them past cubicle after cubicle.

Nakia lifts an elegant brow, “The strip club?”

T’Challa sucks in a sharp breath, “was he…”

“Stripping there? I wish,” Ross stops outside one of the interrogation rooms and pulls a clipboard from the wall beside the door. “No, your boy was doing something much worse. See, to the outside eye, Oasis functions as a strip club, questionable but unfortunately legal. The illegal parts are the underground fight club and money laundering.”

“He was fighting?” T’Challa asks quietly.

“Yup,” Ross confirms, “apparently the kid’s pretty famous down there too. Goes by the name ‘Killmonger.’ A lot of money on him beating his opponent tonight.”

“T’Challa...” Nakia puts a worried hand on his forearm.

“I’m fine,” T’Challa says firmly, “Can you get the release papers ready while I talk to him, Nakia?”

“Of course,” To his relief, she takes his hint and immediately assumes her professional role. “Detective Ross, shall we?”

“Boy's pretty banged up, might want to keep an eye on him tonight in case there’s a concussion,” Ross reminds T’Challa before heading off with Nakia in tow.

T’Challa takes a deep breath and pushes the door to the interrogation room open.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Pete and Shuri?” Erik asks, breaking the heavy silence in the Bentley.

“Heading back to school with Ayo,” T’Challa answers curtly.

“You’re mad,” Erik observes. T’Challa does not lift his gaze from his phone.

He lets the young man squirm and stew for a few more seconds before finally murmuring cooly, “mad, no; disappointed, yes.”

“You’re not my dad,” Erik narrows his eyes, that sunny cheerful boy from the coffee shop gone as he hisses, “you got no right to lecture me.”

“Don’t I?” T’Challa lifts an eyebrow.

Erik huffs and turns resolutely to face the window. The silence resumes. T’Challa sighs and sends a quick text to W’Kabi, their family doctor, to meet them at T’Challa’s apartment.

“Where we goin’? This ain’t the way to Cambridge,” Erik frowns.

“It’s not, we’re headed to my place,” T’Challa replies calmly.

“Why?” Shuri’s roommate asks suspiciously.

“Didn’t you always say you wanted to come home with me?” T’Challa rolls his eyes at the brief flash of panic that crosses Erik’s face and tries not to feels like a dirty old man when he says sarcastically, “well, your wish finally came true. I’m taking you home, kid.”

 

* * *

 

“Damn, this is some Trump Tower level shit,” Erik whistles when T’Challa shows him into the flat. It was a lot more extravagant than his usual style, but he had agreed to let his mother choose the decor, which apparently featured lots of gold and expensive oil paintings of various African animals. Erik wanders over to a clay figurine his mother had purchased at an auction several years ago.

“Are these boobs?” The twenty-year-old asks, pointing at the sculpture inside the glass display case. “There’s a dick on this thing, too. Man, I gotta Snapchat this shit to Linda.”

T’Challa does not bother to grace him with a reply as he shrugs off his suit jacket and begins removing his silver cufflinks. He drops the suit over a hanger and snaps his fingers at the curious young man, motioning for Erik to follow him into the living room. W’Kabi is already sitting on the couch with the first-aid kit. Erik’s steps falter at the sight of the man. T’Challa drags a finger through his tie and jerks it off his neck.

Rolling his shoulders in relief, he orders, “take off your shirt.”

“You know, when I said I didn’t mind sleeping with you, this wasn’t exactly what I was imagining, bruh,” Erik says slowly.

“Let me guess, you must be Erik,” W’Kabi smirks as he gets to his feet and extends a hand to the young man, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good I hope,” The boy tilts his chin up and bares his teeth.

“T’Challa talks about you quite often in our weekly therapy sessions,” W’Kabi elaborates. Erik scowls and folds his arms over his chest.

“Don’t get too excited, W'Kabi is just here to take a look at your wounds, Erik,” T’Challa explains drily, pouring himself and W’Kabi each a glass of scotch from the liquor cabinet. He grabs one of Shuri’s organic, low sugar, apple juice from the fridge for Erik, who scowls and makes a half-hearted lunge at the alcohol.

“Last I remember, legal drinking age is still 21 in Massachusetts, Erik,” T’Challa warns, pressing the cold juice firmly into his hand, “you’ve still got a year left to go.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Erik scowls, but he listens to W’Kabi’s instructions and pulls his blood-streaked shirt over his head. T’Challa draws in a sharp breath at the sight of the heavy black and purple bruises beneath the boy’s skin.

“Hold up your left arm please,” W’Kabi says, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and pressing gently over Erik’s ribs. He checks Erik’s pupil responses among other things.

“A couple of bruised ribs and cuts, but no signs of a concussion,” W’Kabi says when he concludes the checkup. “I’ll give you a few stitches for that one on your shoulder, but it shouldn’t scar if you don’t mess with it.”

Erik’s stomach rumbles loudly in the ensuing silence. He clears his throat, ears reddening as he takes a few hurried swallows from the bottle of juice.

T’Challa sighs and stands, “I’m not that much of a cook, but Shuri tells me my omelets are to die for. You want one, kid?”

“Yes, daddy,” Erik says sweetly.

“ _Don’t,_ ” T'Challa swats the boy on the back of the head and makes his way to the kitchen. W’Kabi shakes his head at their antics but does not say anything, much to T’Challa’s relief.

It is only when he is alone in the kitchen that T'Challa realizes his hands are shaking. How could it have escaped his notice for so long? Now that T’Challa thinks back to their numerous encounters, there are little details that are dead giveaways: the tape residues around Erik’s fingers, the pair of old boxing gloves he’d seen at their apartment, and Erik’s preference for long sleeves.

“Your boyfriend gave me the all clear,” Comes a sullen voice from the doorway.

“He is not my boyfriend. W'Kabi is married to Okoye,” T’Challa says patiently, gesturing to one of the stools around the kitchen island, “sit.”

“Where’s your shirt?” He turns around and finds Erik clad only in his pair of rumpled low-hung jeans. T’Challa sets the plate down in front of him.

“W’Kabi told me to keep it off so I don't mess up the stitches,” Erik mutters, cutting a large chunk of the omelet and forking it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews furiously, “holy shit, marry me.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” T’Challa scolds, taking a drink of scotch. He sits down next to the kid and watches as he practically inhales the food.

“Why?” T’Challa asks.

“Hmm?” Erik blinks at him, left cheek bulging like a chipmunk.

“Why were you fighting there?”

“I like it. Boxing, I mean,” Erik shrugs, “I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at electrical engineering, too,” T’Challa reminds him.

Erik runs a finger over the empty plate and sucks it absently into his mouth, “Yeah, but I didn’t grow up worshiping Nikola Tesla. Nah, my hero growin' up was a badass boxer who also grew up in the 'hood.”

Dread settles over T’Challa as he slaps Erik's hand away, “don’t lick the plate. I’ll make you another one.”

He turns back to the stove and busies himself with cracking more eggs. Erik slips off his stool and wanders over.

“You didn’t ask me who it was,” He murmurs, dropping his chin atop T’Challa’s shoulder and wrapping loose arms around his waist. T'Challa already has a gut feeling for what Erik is going to say, but his deceased father’s old ring name still feels like a sharp punch to the ribs when it slips from the kid’s mouth.

“ _T’Chaka, the Black Panther_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment if you want more c===8


End file.
